


Closeted

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Series: Intimacy [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Closeted, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Trapped In A Closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 20:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3951184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s locked.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“It’s locked.”</p><p>“Very funny.  Now open the door, Sherlock.  I can hardly breathe in here.”</p><p>“I’m not joking, John.  It’s locked.”</p><p>It’s pitch black inside the small coat closet in Dr. Bunbury’s surgery, but John thinks he can see Sherlock’s pale brow furrow as he pulls at the nob to the door, none-the-less.</p><p>“I swear to god, Sherlock, if this is your idea of a joke, I’m going to…”</p><p>“It’s not a joke, John.”  There’s something thready, and slightly panicked running beneath the surface of that reply.</p><p>“Here, let me.”  John lightly bats Sherlock’s hands out of the way, and gives the nob a good screw himself.  When it refuses to give, he throws his shoulder against the door with as much force as he can muster in the tight space.  Predictably it doesn’t budge.  </p><p>He sighs.  “Well, this is just great.”</p><p>“It’s hardly my fault, John.”</p><p>“It was your idea to hide in here!!”</p><p>“It wasn’t.  It was yours!  I said to get under the desk.”</p><p>“Like that’s effective!  And I never once said ‘closet’.”</p><p>Sherlock sniffs indignantly.  “It’s your thing, John.  You always choose the closet.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closeted

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [В шкафу](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4484417) by [fendy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fendy/pseuds/fendy), [Leviossa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leviossa/pseuds/Leviossa)



“It’s locked.”

“What?”

“It’s locked.”

“Very funny.  Now open the door, Sherlock.  I can hardly breathe in here.”

“I’m not joking, John.  It’s locked.”

It’s pitch black inside the small coat closet in Dr. Bunbury’s surgery, but John thinks he can see Sherlock’s pale brow furrow as he pulls at the nob to the door, none-the-less.

“I swear to god, Sherlock, if this is your idea of a joke, I’m going to…”

“It’s not a joke, John.”  There’s something thready, and slightly panicked running beneath the surface of that reply.

“Here, let me.”  John lightly bats Sherlock’s hands out of the way, and gives the nob a good screw himself.  When it refuses to give, he throws his shoulder against the door with as much force as he can muster in the tight space.  Predictably it doesn’t budge.  

He sighs.  “Well, this is just great.”

“It’s hardly my fault, John.”

“It was your idea to hide in here!!”

“It wasn’t.  It was yours!  I said to get under the desk.”

“Like that’s effective!  And I never once said ‘ _closet_ ’.”

Sherlock sniffs indignantly.  “It’s your _thing_ , John.  You always choose the closet.”

“Well, maybe I changed my mind this time.  But, did you listen to me?  Oh no, because Sherlock Holmes always knows everything!  Sherlock Holmes…”

“Well, how was I to know?!”  Sherlock interrupts, his voice tight, and irritated.  

“Because you’re Sherlock Holmes!”

Sherlock ignores this.  “And how was I to know that it would lock from the outside, John?  What sort of door automatically locks from the outside without a release on the interior?”  He sounds petulant.

“Plenty.” John grinds out.  

John hadn’t even wanted to come along on this case.  Sherlock had initially advertised it as nothing but mundane legwork, and John had informed him that he had more than enough to do, without tagging along on one of Sherlock’s petty whims.  

He’s been overworked at the surgery for weeks.  There is a sea of half-packed boxes at the flat in Acton, and meetings with the estate agent.  Add to that the fact that Sherlock can’t seem to leave him alone for even one evening so that he can somehow try to readjust to how much his life has changed, once again, with Mary and the baby gone, and he knows he shouldn’t really be surprised that this boring stakeout has instead turned into a mess of a break and enter.  

John is done.

“Call Lestrade.”

“I don’t have my phone.”

“You always have your phone!”

“I left it in the breast pocket of your other coat, back at the flat.”

John sighs, and fumbles about in his pockets for his own mobile, his elbows, knocking against the wall and door of the tight space in the process.  He mumbles out a steady stream of muttered profanities just to let Sherlock know how very unhappy he truly is, but then swears outright when he presses the home button only to be faced with a black screen.

“What?”

“It’s dead.  I haven’t had a chance to charge it in awhile.”

Sherlock pounds his fist against the door in a fit of uncharacteristic frustration, and then slumps back against the wall behind him with a small huff.  John does the same, though the space is so cramped that the toes of their shoes still press together between them.

“Well, this is great.  Just great.”

“Oh, shut up, John.”

“Fuck off, Sherlock.”  It has a little more venom than John had intended.  He’d not realised how on edge he was until now.

Sherlock sucks in a tiny breath, and goes silent.

“Sorry.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply.

“Really.  I’m just…  It’s not been a good week, okay.  Hell, it’s been a pretty shite month.  I just—I’m running a little low on patience, and I’d rather be sat at home in front of the telly with a game on and a cold brew than locked in a closet for the night…  And, how are we going to explain this to Bunbury in the morning, hmm?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Right…”

They grow silent again.  John is grateful he thought to piss before going out.  But, it’s hot in the tight space, and he’s a little worried about ventilation.  The seal on the door seems fairly tight.

“We’re not going to suffocate, John.  There’s ventilation in the ceiling.”

“Who said anything about suffocating.”

“You were thinking it.”

“How…?”John sighs.“You know what, never mind.It is hot in here, though.”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to try to take my jacket off.”

Sherlock says nothing.

John squirms, mutters, feels his bad shoulder nearly seize up as he twists it awkwardly behind himself, but finally manages to get the damned uncooperative thing off.  He sighs with relief.

Sherlock is still quiet.

“Aren’t you hot?”

“Maybe…”  There is no question about the tone in Sherlock’s voice, and what it means.  He’s pouting.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Sherlock.”  John colours this with a tone of warning that Sherlock knows better than to ignore.

“This situation is unbearable.”

John huffs out a laugh.  “You’ll get no argument from me.”

A tense silence descends between them.  John’s eyes are starting to grow accustomed to the pitch black of their shared space, and he can almost make out Sherlock’s pale features across from him.  He’s staring down the floor, absently fingering the buttonhole on his lapel.

“So what are we going to do?”  John finally asks.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock sulks.

“We’re stuck in here all night.  We have to do something.  Look at you.  You’re fidgety already.”

Sherlock stops worrying the rim of the button hole, and stuffs both hands into his pockets.  “‘M not…”

John chooses to ignore this.  “Truth or dare?”

“Truth or dare?”

“Yeah, it’s a party game.  You choose a truth or a dare, and then whatever I ask you to tell me or do, you have to do it.  Then we switch.”

Sherlock straightens up a little, removes his hands from his pockets.  “You would actually want to play this?”

John shrugs.  “Why not.  It’s not like we have anything else to do.”

“And you have to tell the truth, or take the dare, no matter what?”

There’s an eagerness to Sherlock’s tone that makes John suddenly realise that perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all.  “Well—within reason.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just that…”  And suddenly John realises that he has no idea what he means.  But his heart rate is up, and he feels a little dizzy.  “You’re sure we’re not going to suffocate in here?”

The sigh Sherlock let’s out is dripping with long-suffering annoyance.  “Yes, John.”

“So do you want to play?” John surprises himself by asking again.

Sherlock shrugs.  “Why not?”

“Okay.”  John leans back against the wall behind him again.  “What do you want, truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Okay, umm…  Have you ever cheated on an exam?”

Sherlock snorts out a muffled laugh.  “Really, John?”

“What?”

“Of all the myriad of questions you could ask and get an honest answer to, that’s the one you choose?”

John frowns into the close darkness.  “I’m trying to start us off slow.”

Sherlock sighs heavily.  “Fine.  No.  Why would I need to?  Now your turn, truth or dare?”

“Dare,” John replies, without hesitation.

“Of course.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Shh…  I’m thinking.”

John scowls.

Sherlock thinks.  “I dare you, to…”  There is a pregnant pause, and John can hear the smile in Sherlock’s voice when he finally speaks.  “I dare you to help me take off my coat.”

John huffs out a laugh.  “What?  How is that a dare?”

“We’re in a closet, John.  There’s only so much you can do, and besides, I thought you wanted to start off slow.”

John shrugs in assent.  “Pfft…  Fine.  I’ll help you.”

He doesn’t even have to take a step, just lean forward when Sherlock does.  He perfunctorily undoes the two buttons at Sherlock’s chest and waist, reaches up and slides the coat from his shoulders, and catches it before it falls to the ground.  It’s warm from the heat of Sherlock’s body, and the small space is immediately filled with the last vestiges of the cologne Sherlock put on that morning blended with the distinct, familiar scent of Sherlock’s skin.  It’s unexpectedly arousing.

“Here.”  John shoves the coat at him.  “You.  Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” Sherlock breathes, suddenly too close.

“Okay…”  John shivers, and wonders why.  His shirt is sticking to his back he’s so warm.  “I dare you to—admit that I was right.”

“What?”

“I dare you to admit that I was right, about something.  Anything.”

“Boring…”

“Not to me.”

“Fine.  You were right about me stealing your wheat jumper.”

“Wait—what?”

“Two months ago, you were looking for it at the flat, and you accused me of stealing it for one of my ‘ _bloody experiments_ ’.  You were right.  I did steal it.  Well—borrowed.”

“And just where is it now?  Burnt to a cinder, I suppose!”

“No.  It’s in my wardrobe.”

“I thought you said you used it one of your experiments.”

“No.  You assumed that.  I said that you were right that I had taken it.”

“So you didn’t use it for an experiment.”

“No.”

“Then why…”

“Your turn.  Truth or dare?”

“Ahh… No.  Hold on.  If not for an experiment, why?”

“That’s a truth.  You have to wait until the next round.”

John rolls his eyes.  “Fine—I—I’ll take a truth.”

“You will?”  Sherlock sounds absolutely shocked.

“Mm-hm.  Truth.”

Sherlock goes quiet and still.  After a good minute has passed, John sighs. “You thinking, or…?”

“You’ll answer anything?”

There’s something small and tentative in Sherlock’s voice, and John knows that he should take it as a warning, but what the hell.  They’ll be here for hours, and there’s nothing really stopping him from just refusing to answer.  “Yeah.  Sure.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, holds it.  “James Sholto…” he finally breathes.

John’s skin prickles hot, gooseflesh forming over his arms, and a flush racing up his neck to tinge his cheeks warm and pink.  “What about him?”  He is pleased to hear that he’s managed to force his tone into some semblance of nonchalance.  

“What was he to you?”

“Ex Commander.  You know that.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

John flops back against the wall behind him again, just to get a little distance, to have some room to breathe.  “Yeah—yeah, I know…”   He let’s his eyes slide shut, rolls his shoulder a bit to work out the tension.  “I don’t know.  That’s the honest truth.  I don’t know what he was to me.”

“Were you—that is, did you…?”

“Nope.  I answered your question, you have to wait until next round.”

“But…”

“Those are the rules!”

“There are no rules, John.  You’re making them up as we go along to suit your…”

“You made _me_ wait until the next go.”

Sherlock huffs.  “Fine.  I’ll give you truth, since you want to ask me about the bloody jumper.”

“How generous.”

“You want to know why I took your jumper, yes?”

“Oh—definitely!”

“Well—if you must know…”  Sherlock clears his throat, and shuffles his feet a little next to John’s.  “It smelled like you.”

This is not at all what John expected.  He opens his mouth, and then realises that he has no idea what to say.

Sherlock rubs a hand over his face, and then crosses his arms across his chest.  “I missed you—after the wedding.  The jumper smelled like you, and when I…”  John hears him swallow tightly.  “When I wore it, it helped.”

John laughs lightly, because he doesn’t know what else to do. “And what did the clients think?”

“Sorry?”

“The clients.  Mrs. Hudson.  You have to admit it probably looked ridiculous.  Your arms are practically twice as long as mine.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, John!”  It’s short, snappish, and bit-off at the end.

“Oi!  What’s got your pants in a knot?”

“Of course I didn’t wear it when people were about.  I only wore it to sleep.”

“Hold on.  You _slept_ in my jumper?!”

“You heard me.”  Sherlock still sounds angry.  “Truth or dare.”

“What?”

“Your turn, John.  Truth or dare.”

“Wait, we’re not done talking about…”

“Yes, we are,” Sherlock grinds out.  “Now, truth or dare?”

John shakes his head, and rubs at his eyebrows in exasperation.  “Fine.  Truth.  You wanted to know more about James, right?”

Sherlock says nothing.

“Well?  Do you?”

“I don’t care.”

And John wants to get angry, wants to end this whole stupid game before it gets wildly out of hand, but he doesn’t.  He surprises himself.  “You want to know if it was something more than friendship, yes?  You want to know if we were—intimate?”

Sherlock’s head snaps up.  “Were you?”

“Yes and no.  Yes, it was something more than friendship.  No, we didn’t shag.”  Sherlock opens his mouth, but John soldiers on, suddenly, and inexplicably angry at the perceived assumptions.  “Or toss one another off, or even steal a quick snog, for christ’s sake.  It wasn’t like that, Sherlock.  Firstly, he was my commanding officer.  It would have been highly inappropriate.  Secondly, it was a bloody war zone.  There wasn’t exactly time to…”

“You get off on adrenaline,” Sherlock interrupts.  “It simultaneously heightens your arousal, and dissipates your nervous energy.  Situations of heightened risk and danger are the only times that you are actually somewhat open to, or at least not averse to, overt, suggestive physical contact from men.  Well—that, and when you’ve had too much to drink.”

John’s caught up short.  Instinct is to make some sort of dismissive, sarcastic comment, be tetchy, get angry.  That’s what they do.  It’s how they are.  But he’s tired, they’re going to be here all night, and he isn’t stupid.  He knows this may be the only time he has Sherlock this close, this attentive for several hours at a stretch.  It would be a shame to waste.

“True,” he concedes.  Because even though he’s never really thought of it in those terms, broken it down so succinctly, there really isn’t a thing Sherlock’s just observed that he can honestly disagree with.

His assent must surprise Sherlock even more than it surprised him, because he doesn’t say anything.

“I had feelings for him, and he for me, I think.  But we danced around it. Played at the edges.  It never quite managed to cross that line.  There.  Does that answer your question?”

“Why?”  Sherlock’s voice is hushed and careful.

“Why, what?”

“Why didn’t it cross that line?”

It’s another question.  It’s not part of the rules.  Sherlock should have to wait for it, but…

“I don’t know.”

Sherlock nods, and stares down at his shoes.  “Fair enough.”

“Truth or Dare?”  John challenges.

“Truth.”

“Okay. How old were you when you had your first shag, and was it satisfying?”

“That’s two questions,” Sherlock demurs.

“Fine.  Just answer the first one.”

“I can’t.”

“What?  Why?”

Silence.  

After a moment or so, Sherlock slides down the wall, into a seated position, and hugs his knees to his chest.  John frowns, and then follows suit, because it feels strange towering over him in such a closed space.  There isn’t enough room, and their feet slot in beside one another, their knees pressing uncomfortable against the other’s.

“You don’t have to answer,” John offers after a moment more.  “If it was—hey…”  There’s a knot tight in John’s chest, and a ball of fire forming in his stomach.  “Hey, if it wasn’t a good experience, you don’t have to tell me, okay.  I’m sorry.  We’ll just forget about it.”

“It’s not that.”  There’s not an ounce of the usual ice-tinged sarcasm John expects in Sherlock’s reply, and he’s is thrown for a moment.  He hardly recognises, the soft, open, guileless tone.

“Okay…”

“I’ve not.”

“You’ve not what?”

Sherlock sucks in a quick breath, and then lets it out again in a rush.  “I’ve not been with someone that way.”

“Oh…”  John nods, stares down at his knees.  “Me either.”  He snaps his mouth shut so quick he can hear his own teeth click.  _Why on earth would he say that?!_

“What?”  Sherlock is justifiably confused.

“With a bloke,” John hurries to clarify, and then wonder’s why he’s confessed that either.  Probably all the talk of James, and now this, not wanting Sherlock to feel alone or uncomfortable.

“Oh.”

“I mean, because I’m assuming you mean not with a bloke, too.  Because Janine, and Irene, and…”  _Jesus Christ, why can’t he just shut up?!_

“What?”

“Janine and Irene.”

“What about them?”

“You—“

“John, when I said _not at all_ , I meant—not at all.”

“You didn’t sleep with Janine or Irene?”

“Well, I slept with Janine, but…”

“Well then what do you mean by ‘not at all’.”

“I mean I didn’t have sexual intercourse, or really any sort of sexual intimacy with Janine or Irene.”

“You just said you slept with her.”

“Yes.”

John huffs in frustration.  “Okay, what am I not getting?  You kissed Janine.  I saw that with my own bloody eyes.”

“Oh that.  That didn’t mean anything.  That was mostly for your benefit.”

“What?”

Dead silence.

“What do you mean, ‘for my benefit’?”  John sniffs, and bites down hard to keep from saying things he’ll probably regret later.  This whole endeavour seems to be going swiftly from bad to worse.

“Aren’t we supposed to be playing a game, or something.”

“Sherlock,” John warns.

“Well, it was mostly Janine’s idea, really.”

“What was?” John grinds out, tightly.

“To—well, to put on a bit of a show, to try and see if we could make you…”

“Make me…?” John urges.

“Make you jealous,” Sherlock finally confesses, soundly satisfyingly discomfited.

“What?  Why?!  Why would you…?”

And then things start to click.  _Oh…  OHHH!_

John feels something heavy suddenly and unexpectedly lift.  It’s like the air has cleared.  He can breathe again.  He can finally think!

“Dare.”

Sherlock blinks into the darkness, clearly thrown by the sudden change in direction.  “What?”

“Dare.  It’s my turn, and I want you to give me a dare.”

“I thought maybe you were tired of this game.”

“Nope.  We’re just getting started.  Dare.”

Sherlock’s breathing has changed. “You can say no, if you like.”

“I know.”

“Alright, I—I dare you to…”  He takes a deep breath.  “I dare you to tell me what you really think of me.”

“Yeah, okay.  That’s sort of more of a truth, but—sure.  Why not?  

“You’re Brilliant.Bit of a dick sometimes.Softer than you let on, but horribly self-absorbed.Arrogant.Confident.Human.Unique.Extraordinary.”John hesitates, stares across the shadowed divide to the dark silhouette that is Sherlock.“Scared.Mmm—no…Terrified, a lot of the time, I think.”

Sherlock doesn’t say a word.  

John’s courage is inexplicable shorn up by the silence.  “Terrified that you’re a fraud.  

“You’re not, you know.  You’re just human.  You care more than you want to about things.  You think—you think I stick around for Sherlock Holmes: The Great Detective, so that’s what you give me, but you’re wrong.  That’s not why I stay.  It’s not what I really want.”

“What do you want?”  It’s so quiet as to almost be a whisper.

“You.”

“That _is_ me.”

“That’s a _part_ of you.”

“Well, yes, but…”

“But that’s Sherlock Holmes for the public, for the clients, for the papers.  I want…”  A wave of fondness washes over John without warning.  It’s been years since he’s felt it this strong.  “I want Sherlock.  Not Sherlock Holmes.  I want— _my_ Sherlock.”

“And who’s that?”  Sherlock’s voice is soft and careful, but rough around the edges, too. 

John smiles into the shadows.  “The one who giggles at crime scenes.  The one who practically vibrates with happiness when he gets a new case.  The one who actually gets his arse up off the couch, and drags himself to the shops to pick up the beer I like when he knows I’ve had a rough day, or who does things just because I drop a hint I might like it, and then pretends it was his idea all along.  The one who still talks to me when I’m not there, who loves his landlady almost more than his own mother and practically killed a man for laying a finger on her.  The one who drapes a blanket over me when I fall asleep on the couch, and then pretends he doesn’t know how it got there.  The one who spent months planning a perfect wedding that was only going to take me away from him in end, just because he thought it would make me happy.  And that’s the Sherlock who’s my best friend.  That’s the Sherlock I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

Sherlock is totally silent, and so John takes a deep breath, and continues.  “I was going to talk to you about that, actually, and I suppose now is as good a time as any.  I’ve got your undivided attention at least.”

Sherlock chokes out a small laugh that almost sounds tear-laced at the edges.

“I’m selling the place in Acton.”

“I’d wondered.”

“I—I’d like to come back to Baker St.  I want to come home…  If that’s alright.”

John can see Sherlock nod eagerly in the darkness.  “Yes.”

The relief is instant and profound.  

“For good this time.  I—I’d like to not be anywhere else anymore.  You understand?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.  Okay.  Good—that’s good.  I…”

“Dare.”  Sherlock blurts.

“You want a dare?”  John smiles.

“Yes.”

“Okay.  Umm…”  And oh, it’s a risk, an almost unforgivable risk, but they’ve come so far this last year, and even here, now, tonight, in this close, intimate darkness.  “I dare you to tell me what you really feel for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

Sherlock draws in a shaking breath.  “John, I…”

“Or pass,” John rushes to amend.  ( _Bad idea.  Horrible idea!  Whatever could he have been thinking.)_

“Pass?”

“Those are the rules.  You get three passes a game.”

“You made that up—just now, you made that up.”

“So—do you want to pass?”

Sherlock hesitates, and John wonders why he suddenly feels breathless and a little ill.

“No.  I don’t want to pass.”

“Oh.”

“Unless you want me to…”

“No, I—whatever you want.”

“You _were_ the one who asked, John.”

“Yes, I know, I—  It’s fine.  Fine.  Go ahead.”

Sherlock is quiet for a long time.  When he finally speaks, his voice is sure, calm, confident.  “I’m glad you’re coming home.  I’m pleased you plan to stay.  I missed you.  I’m not alright when you are gone, John.  Everything—everything is better when you’re there.

“And I meant what I said at your wedding—every word.  I do intend to always be here for you, if that’s what you want.”

“You said other things…”The words tumble out, unbidden, and John is instantly embarrassed, and more than a little angry at himself.Additionally, he is growing more and more certain that Sherlock’s been wrong, that they are not, in fact, getting enough oxygen in the tight confines of this closet. He can’t seem to draw enough breath.

“Yes.  I did.”

Definitely not enough oxygen.  “Sherlock—I—I think…”

Sherlock leans forward a little in the dark, as though trying to see John’s face.  He holds a hand up in the air, just in front of John’s lips, and then drops it again.  “Breathe, John.”

“I don’t think—we’re getting enough—oxygen—in here.  I—“

“We are.  You’re panicking.”

“Panic—why would I—“

“Just breathe.  And when you’re ready—truth or dare?”

“Wha—what?”

“When you’ve got your breath back, let me know if you want a truth or a dare.”

“But—you’re not—you’ve not…”

“It’s fine, John.  I take my pass this round.  It’s your turn.”

“No—Sherlock, please—I want—“

“Do you want a dare, John?”

“I…”

“Yes, or no?”

“Y—yes.  Dare.  Fine.”

“Come here.”

“What?”

“Come here—over here.”

“Sherlock, I—I can’t get any closer.  We—we’re already knee—to knee.”

“John…”  There’s something unruffled, and sure, and just a little commanding in Sherlock’s tone.

“Where?”

“Just come here.”

“That’s the dare?”

“Yes.”

“Why, though?  Why do you want me to come over there?”

“I just do.  Now, come.”

John struggles to push off the wall in the small space, and there is much fumbling, hands everywhere, and John nearly toppling forward, Sherlock spreading his legs to make room.

“Turn around,” he orders.

John does.

“Now sit.”

“What?  Why?”

“John, for goodness sake.  Sit!”

And John does as he’s told, settles into the V of Sherlock’s spread legs, let’s Sherlock wrap his arms around him, and pull him back against his chest.  “Good.  Now, just breathe.”

“What?”

“Breathe.  You’re panicking, whether you want to admit it or not.  So, just breathe.”

“I’m not—I’m not panicking.  That is—I wasn’t—until…”

“Until what?”  He can feel the vibration of Sherlock’s baritone against his back, and the waft of his breath against his hair.

“Until this.”

“This?”

“Yes!  This!”  John waves his hands a little wildly at their entwined bodies, and gulps in a huge breath.

“Oh, yes.  But why panic, though?”

“Because!  You—you’re—and we’re…”

“Do you want to go back to your side of the closet?”

John doesn’t.  The realisation is instant, and strangely, almost a relief.  He lets out a small huff of defeat, and then settles back against Sherlock’s chest without further argument.  He concentrates on his breathing.

They sit that way for a long time.  John is tired, he realises.  It must being going on 1:00 in the morning by now.  He breathes, he calms, he almost falls asleep a few times.  After what seems a good half-hour, Sherlock finally speaks.  

“Better?”

“Mmm…”  John stretches his ankles and calves and then settles again.  “Truth or Dare?”

Sherlock chuckles.  “Truth.”

“Finish it.  Finish what you were going to say before.  Please…”

“You really don’t know?”

John shakes his head.

“What did I say, John?  At your wedding, in that speech?  What did I say?”

“You called me the bravest, the kindest and wisest human being you’ve ever known.”

“What else?”

“Said that you would never let me down; would spend the rest of your life proving that.” 

“Yes.  And?”

“That I saved you.”

“You did.”

“I hardly see how?”

“No?”

“No.  If anything, Sherlock, you saved me.  

“I never told you this before, but when we met I was…  Well, I wasn’t in the best place.  It wasn’t just the lack of job, or place to live, or reacclimatising to civilian life.  It was—well, I don’t know what it was, but I was finding it hard to find reasons to keep going, to get up every morning, draw back the curtains, eat, bathe, go out.  Just—just the basics, you know.

“And then suddenly there you were, and everything changed.  In less than forty-eight hours you turned my whole life around.”

“But, you did the same for me.  You don’t see that?”  Sherlock sounds incredulous, and a little frustrated.

John rolls his head from side to side on Sherlock’s chest, in lieu of shaking his head, and then settles with one ear pressed against it.  He can hear his heart beating.  Sherlock looks down at the top of his head. 

“You did.  It was my last opportunity to make it on my own, to prove to Mycroft that I could do for myself.  I was tired of being constantly under his thumb.  I had packed up and left my last flat in the middle of the night, without telling him because Mrs. Hudson unexpectedly let me know she had a vacancy, and I was determined to carve something out for myself, on my own terms.  

“But, I knew I couldn’t do it _entirely_ on my own.  I had to find someone I could live with, and who would live with me, and I had to make it work.  And you were everything I could have hoped for, John—more than.  If I’d sat and made a list of everything I needed, wanted, I still could never, in a million years have…”

John looks up at Sherlock’s sudden silence, and Sherlock swallows tightly.  They are close enough now that John can feel Sherlock’s breath on his face, see the way his eyes move over the concealed contours of John’s face in slow, but thorough investigation.  He is trying to read him, John supposes, but it is all but impossible in the dark.  

“You’ve left something out,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Something out?”

“From the speech.”

John would never admit this to Sherlock, but he has every word of that speech memorised, burned into his brain and heart as the only good thing to remain of the whole fiasco that was was Mary Morstan.  He knows what he’s left out.  But to say it, to give it voice…  He’s not sure that he can.  Not even sure he can believe it truth be told.  And it’s weak, and maybe even a little cruel, but he needs Sherlock to be the one to say it, now.  He needs to know for sure, because he’s terrified.

“Have I?”  All John can bring himself to offer.  He can’t do it.  He can’t be so heartless as to admit he’s forgotten, but he just can’t be the one to…

“Yes.  And you know what I’m talking about, and I meant that too.”

Sherlock is so close.  John knows, were he to ease up, tilt his chin just so, he could almost…  

His mouth is dry, and his heart pounding so hard he can feel it.  

“Meant what?”  He finally manages in a choked whisper.

“I do, John.  I—I do prefer you to anyone I have ever known.  I need you, want you with me.  I—I do love you.”

John can feel himself trembling, how tight wound he is, ready to break.  It’s now, or not at all, because nothing like this situation is ever going to happen again, and there is something between them just now that has broken something wide open, something he’s always kept locked so tight…

“Dare.”  He wondered if he’d be able to find his voice at all, but there is a strength, and a heat to the word he had not expected.

Sherlock sucks in a trembling breath.  So close…

“Now?”

“Yes.  Now.  Dare.  What do you want?”

Sherlock swallows, and a muscle in his jaw twitches.  “You can pass.  If it’s not what you—if you don’t…”

“I know,” John murmurs back.

And then Sherlock grows very still, all the little fidgets and hums that are a usual part of his unique energy grind to a complete stop.  All there is is the sound of their breathing, mingled, and inexplicably in synch in the close darkness.

“Kiss me.”  

The courage!  And he _is_ terrified.  John can hear it in the way Sherlock’s voice trembles, how his tone regresses, making him sound heartrendingly small and vulnerable for the briefest of moments.  But then he seems to rally, easier, now the words have been said, perhaps.  

He takes a deep breath, and asks again.  “Kiss me.”  And this time there is an undercurrent of something new.  

He must know, John realises.  He must see everything.

John could call pass.  Sherlock’s already offered, but—he doesn’t want to.  He’s wanted this so long he can’t even remember when or how it started.  Maybe—maybe from that first day, from the moment Sherlock looked up at him, and held his gaze as he strode across the lab to borrow his phone.  Maybe it was after everything that happened at the pool, or the Adler affair.  Maybe it was looking up from his table at the Landmark, and seeing Sherlock in that ridiculous disguise after two long years of grieving him like you’d grieve a spouse, throwing him to the floor, caging Sherlock’s body with his own, wrapping his hands around his throat, and…

It’s easy.  Just a slight shift upward, supported on one arm, as the other reaches up to sink into Sherlock’s curls, to pull his head down, bridge the gap between them.  

Sherlock’s lips are warm, pliant, slightly moist, and he sucks in a small gasp through his nose the moment their lips meet.  But, he seems to slip into the flow of it with ease, not the slightest hesitance, all the intense, frantic energy John is so familiar with disappears, and Sherlock is instantly laser focussed, intent, and breathtakingly calm.

For all his inexperience, you would never know.  There is an intensity, a passion John has never encountered with another partner, but there is also something else he could never have foreseen: attentiveness, tenderness, care.  So careful, as though he thinks John might crumble at the slightest breath.  John had not expected this.

Oh, he’d thought about it on occasion, he can admit that now—what it might be like, how Sherlock might respond to advances.  And there were always two different scenarios that came to mind.  

In the first Sherlock turned him down flat.  Politely, of course.  For all his brusque and seemingly cold demeanour, he has always been careful with John in that regard.  But still, it was all ‘ _married to my work_ ’, and ‘ _not really looking for any sort of romantic attachment_ ’, and ‘ _truly flattered, but…_ ’

In the second scenario, Sherlock, leapt eagerly at the chance (this was 90% his own personal fantasy, John is sure), and things escalated quickly, heating up to the point where John’s imagination would white out, fade into a vague and blurry haze of undefined pleasures.  

In John’s mind, Sherlock either ran completely hot or completely cold, and in neither instance was love involved.  But reality has turned out to be something altogether different, something quite extraordinary.

Sherlock’s long fingers are entwined in the short strands of John’s newly cut hair, stroking lazy trails up his back, over his shoulders, down his arms, and his lips are exploring, tasting, almost worshiping John’s mouth, neck, jaw.  

John is dizzy, lost.  He thought it would be more difficult than this, crossing the line he had for years never let himself entertain for anything more than a few brief, passing moments.  But, it’s easy.  It’s amazingly easy.  And he owes that to Sherlock, he thinks.  No experience, and yet somehow he can still read John like sheet music, still coax symphonies from beneath his skin.  

They are a sculpture of tangled limbs, of hot panting breaths, of fire, and light, and voltaic, yearning need when Sherlock finally pulls away.  John can feel rather than see Sherlock’s eyes searching his in the darkness.

“Are you alright?”  So soft.  So sincere and concerned.

John trails a thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone, rough with stubble so late in the day, leans in, presses his forehead to Sherlock’s lips.  “I love you,” he says, finally.  “I love you.”  

He can hear the revelation in it, as though he has surprised himself more than anyone.  It wasn’t that he didn’t know.  He’s always known.  It’s that it was so simple in the end.  So effortless to say, to express.  And the release of it, the feeling of things he can’t even define, just dropping away, no struggle, no fuss.

Sherlock’s arms tighten around his back, his breath hitches against John’s forehead.  “Do you?”  And there is wonder of his own in that.

“Yes.  I always have—always.  I’m sorry it took me this long.”

Sherlock shakes his head.  “It’s fine.”

John huffs out a laugh, and Sherlock presses his lips against his forehead in one last kiss, before pulling back.  His hands stay on John’s body, though, as though he has the right now, as though all this time he had only been waiting for permission and now it’s been given he never intends to let him go again.  

And John doesn’t mind.  Because it _is_ fine.  It’s all fine.  It always has been.

“I really don’t know what I’m going to tell Bunbury, you know.”

John smiles.  “Yeah, I know.”

“Perhaps the best approach is to just act as though there is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about us stumbling out of the closet, a flushed and disheveled mess?”

John laughs outright then.  “They unlock for the day, open the door to hang up their coats, and we just stride out as though it’s nothing—business as usual, all’s well that ends well, eh.”

“Exactly.”  John can hear the smile in Sherlock’s voice.

“Fair point, I suppose.  I’m game if you are!”

Sherlock chuckles, warm and familiar against John’s ear.  “Yes.  Game.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Closeted [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5030737) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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